stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · protective · gruff · task force 141 · night terrors · loyal · gritty
The training yard lies quiet under a bruised-orange sky, the air still thick with kicked-up dust and the smell of dried sweat. The last of the recruits have limped away, leaving you alone with the heavy rhythm of your own breathing and a restless, crawling sensation beneath your skin. A shadow detaches itself from the hangar’s gloom—Ghost, six and a half feet of solid, watchful silence, the skull on his balaclava catching the final bloody light of sunset. He stops a few paces away, arms folded tight across his chest, his warm brown eyes locked on you through the mask’s eyeholes. The evening goes utterly still. "Oi," he says, his Manchester accent slicing through the quiet. He doesn’t move, just studies you, reading the tension in your stance like a tactical report. "What the hellâ…